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Cover Art & Design
By: Vanz Scales
THE NEXXUSS Volume 17
March 2012
"words are not so important as to be vaulted away, nor are they worthless enough to throw away, so we give them away" -DP-
Generous Contributors Love and War- Wanda Morrow Clevenger- 7
Mr. Me, Tranströmered- Tyler Malone– 8
Eulogy- Gina McKnight - 10
Conductor- Ink- 11
Her at 16- William Taylor Jr.- 12
Artwork- Ivan de Monbrison- 13
Silent Conversation- Bobbi Sinha-Morey- 15
Of Dogs & Men- Michael Ashley- 16
Untitled- Nicole Marie Curteis- 17
Disappearing is an Art- Matt Galletta- 18
Salaam Alaikum- Alexander Pyle- 19
Tossing an apple into the street- Jhon Baker- 21
Rocks Off- Pete Armetta- 22
Artwork- Ivan de Monbrison- 23
We were the sky-Rob Dyer-25
Conversation with a poet-William Taylor Jr.- 26
Drifting- Robin Lee– 28
The Dark Ages- Michael D. Goscinski– 30
Awake, Fresh Sounds of Hope- Chris G. Vaillancourt– 31
America is High- Ray Quesada– 32
Ready for something new- Peaches Ostalaza- 34
Secrets- Jeff Loquist- 35
All That Befell- Paul Sands- 36
Concubines-Kevin Thornburgh- 37
Kihabso Lezebi-Markos Longoria- 38
Prince Morphine-Sheri Tardio- 39
Kiss the Shadow- Adrian AIDZ Giannini– 40
The Artist-41
Love and War Wanda has thirty-two years in, he confides saying;
his unprecedented shot
leaves a powder burn coming back around
if my response is too enjoyed―best if I just mouth thank you
my tongue is bruised from biting it
I'm rubber
you're glue
everything you say . . .
the damage done wasn't fatal, just one peg of the pedestal
I used to bow before;
yet, I wish I could have watched this chivalrous stand
as a fly on the wall, compound eyes multiplying defeat
while my insides went limp, even with knowing
the body count doesn't change
and their war was never mine to win anyhow
still, I love him for having my back
despite the hugely winding wait.
By: Wanda Morrow Clevenger 7
Mr. Me, Tranströmered Leaves, leavings of uncrushed cigarettes smoked to filters on conjoined concrete cloistering a plaza. A clinic’s first day open by a cold cut sandwich shop, the cutter of many young fingers. After signing a name a dozen times, Tranströmer’s greatest hits is returned to a knee, read at the speed of waiting rooms and aloud, treating poetry as it should: tasted on the air. Väinämöinen is vermin, vitriol for all who hear nearby. They want to put us both on his boat, to leave them beached on showboating sports stars palms, under palms of political polling. The receptionist calls Mr. Me. The nurse is ready for what’s carried: caffeine, a course grind coursing blood. Medical professionals seek THC chemicals as bug men track roaches. We’re led to a room reading Tranströmer’s toast crumb text with lunges and lungs, Väinämöinen’s voyage is as far from a church as an abortion clinic. His voyage is nothing to us. He is no one to us. Bewitching azure fingernails beckon by curtailed cuticles and point to a door propped by a rubber triangle. Inside, all is unused. All shines white like displays in a home appliances department. The first stains on immaculate machinations will be from Mr. Me after the rendezvous with a muse, a nurse who reluctantly shakes hands, knowing she won’t deal with dulcet deliquescent. Gloves on. Safe in a safe go monies, a phone, keys curled on a rusted loop, ID cards, but Väinämöinen comes to the bathroom though he glides far into fog, sails seeping into clouds. Dragging along drug lakes, searching for drugs on whistling waves as fish fins and feet splash surfaces to depths unseen, sounds of nightfall at sea. She closes the bathroom door, not locked to protect accidental eyes seeing standing over a ceramic hole, one hand on Väinämöinen and the other steadying a pistol—rifle, steadying a rifle. 8
Don’t be bothered, be at sea as nerves absorb
warm salty temperatures, as the cup’s
shallow plastic measurements are exceeded.
Not flushing or washing, as per her nursly scrub-spoken orders.
Then not fully zipping like as a boy is taught to do.
Taking to the hallway, reading and ushering insides through
a valley of re-printed paintings, sands before a bland sea with
no waves, not one wrinkle of beauty. Somebody got them cheap,
framed by machines with no mouths to feed, only outlets to plug.
The nurse accepts cupped warmth but not a smile.
She doesn’t shake goodbye, she shares a bland Bic pen to sign
for the liquids as warm as cooling coffee. Wash, a nurse says.
One curve in the hallway, where the world shapes, cusps
to see battleships or ocean liners or all oil platforms, dark crafts
vertical on the temporarily orange horizontal horizon:
Before the world curves and we’re back again
a few feet to the right from out old selves, where we shake
with what we left behind. Goodbye is a curse from a receptionist.
White smoke discolors in curls into the sun as Väinämöinen reads
and music makes its way out of car doors, ears, from pockets.
But no one wears it on their faces, no symptoms of its spell.
Out to the smell of diesel, unclean jeans, predisposed genes,
waves of 18-wheelers on highways, decks of wrecks
directed to destinations by axels, wheels and assholes,
Always ready to stop and set car alarms, alerting everyone
to their security. Concrete wraps and curves the clinic, now stained,
leading to a coffee shop. Väinämöinen is read to parking stumps
as he walks to where beans, like gas prices, are on the rise.
By: Tyler Malone
9
Eulogy you weave azure auras, assemble still winds, send me endeavors, engaging my name through ensembles of whispers and veils of cool warmth, seizing your breath, stealth and composed eulogy for roses, eulogy for time, reluctant and slipping, chilled and sublime; heartbeats are graced with ribbon tied bows, waiting and wishing, carry me home...
By: Gina McKnight
10
Conductor You were a boy feeding on chaos, tossing plastic bags filled to bursting with other plastic bags off the overpass into indiscriminate lanes of morning commuters. Eyes closed, jaw slack, you inhaled cacophony – horns trained on bumpers, fleeting fractions of words you were taught never to say but recognized instantly, the wind’s song as it changed according to brake pedals and nervous steering wheels – all tied together with a staff, a vertical tread, the slow waft of skidding rubber. Conductor behind guardrail podium, you bent air like a wand – complete faith in your ensemble. When all the players reached the end of the piece, their instruments returned to potential, your truancy bowed as if for applause, and you came up holding another bag. By: Ink
11
Her at 16 If the wars and the slaughterhouses could see her at 16 they would surely change their ugly ways the air would not smell so much of cold steel and ash death would be afraid spring would not give up so soon and the eyes of the old would shine with different tears. By: William Taylor Jr.
12
13
Silent Conversation The art of silent conversation died not long ago when you saw the grey home where I lived and decided to go. Now that you've left you know what little I have and, deep inside, rage scribbles on the walls of my heart. It's like a prayer to the empti- ness. The only thing I want to say glitters out of my reach, and for a while you knew me so well. You read my thoughts better than I could and now I'm lost inside myself. My body is a holding cell. Now all I have is your waning memory and by tomorrow I may not rise again.
By: Bobbi Sinha-Morey
15
Of Dogs & Men
my Boxer squeezes himself
into the tightest spaces
just to be a little closer to me
he shuffles his frame
onto my tatty settee
into the narrowest gap
plonks his head on my thigh
before closing his eyes
I run my hands across him
recalling how my ex lover
would place his head
faithfully across my legs
& how I'd run my fingers
through his hair
my dog breaks wind
but despite the stench
I smile
safe in the knowledge
he isn't going to shit
on me.
By: Michael Ashley
16
Untitled He coaxed me to write, so I whispered in his ear Secrets I've kept and wanted to say Lovelorn pangs of yesteryear It's 3:33am I'm addicted to lucidity A spirit junkie getting off on One last prayer Where do we go from here? My heart aches and my eyes burn Tears streaming down my face like some mechanized driver Driving aimlessly without headlights on the highway Trying everything in their power to Survive destiny.
By: Nicole Marie Curteis 17
Disappearing is an art Walking down 4th, people that I used to know pass me without a glance. Outside a cafe, an old friend is drinking espresso. He doesn't wave. In the park, a former lover jogs past. She smiles blankly in my direction. I sit down on the same bench as yesterday, and keep turning pages in the blank book in my lap.
By: Matt Galletta
18
Salaam Alaikum
Paint me Phoenician, They call me Thermidor
As if I'm some door To a revolution
Of evolution That grazes the crests of sand dunes
And raises spirits in the spirit-less land Of “milk”, “honey”
And “America”
Although only two of the three are exactly welcome, And
According to Rush They're both
“America”, “America” And
“America”
Now as much as I love “Moving Pictures” I can't agree with that sentiment
Like It was sent to me
Through a TV So automatically
I'm expected to believe That it's
Right, and True, and
Just,
19
Just enough that if I wasn't exactly paying attention, I'd be inclined, To rally behind, A sack of tea,
Labeled with mismatched slogans, Irresponsible grammar,
And superciliously misused nomenclature,
The irony, Is that a Pakistani woman
Working for AT&T, More versed in these things, Than the average American.
And that's sad.
Because in no other instance, Could I honestly say
That I truly believe, That a lacking in language, Leads to a lacking in lives,
At least overseas
So paint me Phoenician, And leave me the fuck alone.
By: Alexander Pyle
20
Tossing an apple into the street
picking a red delicious
from the sidewalk cart
and biting into its flesh.
rotted.
and I spit it out, tossing the apple into the street.
I have come to learn that
I am not black,
that I am not a Jew.
I am not a homosexual,
a Christian, from Minneapolis
or L.A.
I am not a soldier,
my cadence on in
written form
and there is no destiny for California.
I will not die in France
or in Rome.
tossing an apple into the street
these joys are not mine,
this blood is not mine,
this fight is not mine.
By: Jhon Baker
21
ROCKS OFF you speak like an authority and go off on your streak but lacking notoriety can’t back up your critique. a pillar of society so shameless with your lies your goal is just conformity a simple ruthless guise. aggravate accelerate your posture is a crime abominate adulterate your rocks off every time contaminate emasculate it’s how you get your kicks pontificate manipulate deceptive dirty tricks infiltrate indoctrinate to make yourself feel great orchestrate pontificate and spewing all your hate ruminate regurgitate and shooting for your prize masturbate inseminate right between the eyes By: Pete Armetta
22
23
We were the sky we were the sky a drifting vagabond of colors pressing the blue vastness for a clue we knew the truth broken wings have purpose forcing the weak to pause to catch the drift before being caught we dared to live no cliff too high, we jumped allowing the wonder to catch us as young bones split and healed stronger than our Father's we chose to die clutching the veil of hate at arm’s length, safely away from old hearts that once were the sky By: Rob Dyer 25
Brief conversation with William Taylor Jr. Tittsp: How would you describe yourself in three words William: Doomed but joyful. Tittsp: What five people would you like to have at a dinner party you are hosting William: Townes Van Zant, Oscar Wilde, Anne Sexton, Christopher Hitchens, Werner Herzog Tittsp: What is your guilty pleasure William: Olivia Newton John Tittsp: Favorite one-liner William: "There's more to life than books, you know-but not much more."--Morrissey Tittsp: What would you say to yourself if you could go back in time & have a conversation with your self at age thirteen? William: Don't lose heart, you'll make it through. Tittsp: What is your greatest achievement to date William: That quality independent publishers have seen fit to put time and money into making beautiful books of my work. Every time anyone spends their hard earned money on any of my art, I am endlessly amazed and grateful. Tittsp: What music can you not live without William: It varies a bit depending upon my mood, but generally anything that can inspire me to dance about the house with abandon. Which usually means stuff that got me through my formative years: The Smiths, The Replacements, Joy Division, Husker Du, Etc. Tittsp: What advice do you have for a young writer on surviving the “starving artist” lifestyle William: If your art is important to you, keep at it as best you can, even when common sense might dictate to do otherwise. Doing what is important to you is the best way to feel good about your-self. Being happy is better than being rich. Tittsp: Favorite indie movie, favorite book, favorite comedian William: Movie: Eraserhead Book: Brothers Karamazov Comedian: Maria Bamford (living) George Carlin (of all time). Tittsp: Any idea on what you would like your last words to be: William: “I love you”
26
William Taylor Jr. lives and writes in San Francisco. He has been published in numerous publications to include Tree Killer Ink & The New York Quarterly. His latest books, “The Hunger Season” (poetry) and “An Age of Mon-sters” (prose) are wonderful examples of how this writer observes the world, peels back layers and delivers to us writing at it’s finest. I am a proud owner of both these books and have dog-eared the pages, returning again and again to read. Thank you William, for being a beacon in this literary world and allowing us , tittsp, to share your words with others. For more information on William please visit : http://williamtaylorjr.net/
27
Drifting Drifting on an endless road snow covered, slippery & wet in the distance lights shine bright 100 dreams lost 20 tears shed slate wiped clean darkness vanished better days, new ways no stopping now nor going back ~life is short~ No shit! the journey the living the learning ~One day at a time~ the only way experiences lived hard learnt well
28
Refusal to be brought down ohhhh and that song and your words how they echo in a still mind yet all is well in the calm quiet simplest existence Fear no more not willing to be hurt removed from the pain saw too much rain drifting on my own searching for answers holding my head high knowing that road will lead to Somewhere Special By: Robin Lee 29
The Dark Ages amidst the ashes screaming saints sizzled flesh and crucifix burn the hearts of two lovers finished forsaken lust no remorse no mercy the end of an era an era of oppression torment lies and so ends the dark ages
By: Michael D. Goscinski
30
Awake, Fresh Sounds of Hope When there's hope in believing, then so finding I must believe; In truth that is self-evident and honesty that is constantly weaving through the fabric of life. Homespun theories do not appease for they may be constructed of crawling festering greed. Threads of lies may be disguised as wisdom painted black. Instead I fondle spinning folds of brightly created illusions which sustains when all else fails. In pieces of tattered rope lies the shattered promises of serenity made and deployed. There are waves of voices screaming for solutions made in mankind. Yet nothing is resolved by hate for this is the truth I find. Where hope grows in splendor an unborn faith waits to arrive. In depths of mystic chanting words Let me be in the books that say the truth arrives from; Where God plants His eternal wisdom as I herald the signs of treasured love. Arise, awake, fresh sounds of hope, let the gentle peace begin to grow.
By: Chris G. Vaillancourt
31
America is High
America is High - The man who changes your oil is high.
The priest is drunk - The teacher; the mother; the father is high.
Marijuana flows into the streets.
When the wind blows
the rain in your face,
when you pass strangers
as you shield yourself with your arm...all those strangers
you pay no attention to…
80% of them are either high,
Or want to be high.
They're on their way to get high
Or to work, so they can have green pieces
Of paper to trade for food...
And to get high.
The man with no home, sleeping
By the dumpster in the
Night,
the moon - his night-light protecting him
From monsters – He's high. The high gave
his mind more shelter than his Home did. What we need
Shelter from, more than the fire
and wind, falling rocks and rain, is
Shelter from sadness,
Shelter from our wicked pasts,
Shelter from the reality that this
world isn't the way
We thought it was
As children. Shelter and escape is needed from the mundane.
This is why we seek to escape
ourselves, and why
We need the next distraction constantly
Deep down we know
We are only half as great as we think we are…
32
We seek To escape. To hide from our lives, I'm certain, Behind a curtain or, behind Superman's cape. We seek, every hour, in the shower, Every day, when we play, We seek, we seek Every week, every week, to escape Because we are weak. America is weak-minded, screaming "Look how big, and tall, and badass and tough and Alpha, and Elite, and strong and Perfect I am!!!" America, so old, never seems to grow up. Large, old bodies, with tiny, little 4-year-old minds trapped inside. Entrepreneur, bourgeois Badass – So high on his/her own ego, if nothing else!!! "Eros is a powerfully destructive force!..." Said Daniel Robinson, in a lecture on Nietzsche! America is high on Steroids, on Anger and Pride, pumped up for the Big Game And Coach has lined the ref's pockets, so he'll look the other way in Shame So America can cheat; Exploit children in Indonesia... The kids with no shoes on their feet Are crying the sweatshop blues. A 6-year-old made your 12-year-old's dress But America will never confess. America is HIGH and SELF-RIGHTEOUS, flying around the world, set course, with ZERO Remorse, On a giant 9-cocked horse Named Eros. Self-righteous and high... America is High. By: Ray Quesada
33
Ready for something new
Ready for something true
Yearning for something real
Sick and tired of people who don't understand me
Fed up with the days
Saddened by the nights
Carelessly disregarding the light
Tell me what it’s like to reach out and
Touch the flesh of love and feel no fright
Feeling something soft but
Holding something light
Falling into a place of pure delight-
Pleasured not from a touch
But the comfort of not having to front.
No need to adjust. Complete trust
I mean how can this be
How can someone be so free
I mean just talking between you and me...What's the secret
How do you know when to give away the key-
Let out all your inner mystery
It could be a total waste of time-
Showing someone your true colors
For you to only find out their blind.
All along them never understanding
Your security system was willingly disarmed.
Telling yourself progress will never be made
Until you let down your guard.
Feeling like "why risk the harm" and
Still giving in...listening to that smooth talker optimism.
And here drops the bomb.
Everything about us goes click, click
But nothing ever sticks...
Who's next on my list of mistakes?
By: Peaches Ostalaza
34
.
Secrets
Do you want to know a secret? A titillating, tantalizing type of secret. A blow your mind, change your world type of secret. A make your heart hit your throat so hard you have to swallow because you don't want to watch it beat type of secret. The type of secret that oozes sincerity. The type of secret that begs for clarity. The type of secret that makes you beg for more... and when you can't beg for more... it's the type of secret that will make you grovel. The type of secret that you're almost afraid to know. I want to know that type of secret too... Especially when she walks through that door smelling like cheap cologne... and stale cigars. By: Jeff Loquist 35
All That Befell rolling deep does forever feel like this? exposed as the sluiced workings of an oily machine shatter sliced by an unwelcome digitalis sheen hollering yellowed halo crawling and mauled over briared glassy blaze don’t breathe don’t breathe just swallow whole the harrowing plasma of this ravenous trial of flies between the quivering pap and thunder struck drummer boy battery bring forth your urgent portent of sinistral fire leave me cooked consumed cold coal lumpen root clocked stopped wet fish iced and clean of skin nailed down beyond even a mothers eyes
By: Paul Sands
36
Chinese Concubines
Candlelight Her neck is too Thin-but her Lips are like Peaches-she Will close the Curtains tonight
Oldest Concubine
Her teeth
Are yellow- Her hair
Drunken- She will Sit and Wait all
Night- her Breasts
Like walnuts
Dark Night
No matter how many poems
I write, I will die.
I am alone with the street-
Lights
And the water in the
Gutters
My house will stand twenty
Or thirty more years
Another day and I write a poem,
Another night
And I’ve never written one.
By: Kevin Thornburg
37
Kihabso Lezebi As I gravitate into the soul of this universe I insulate myself in wind Silliness inside humanoids Inside-outside rotating handshakes Broken barriers non-cult flagships Somewhere in here goes the ostinato And thoughts of ostracism Outré? Hanging out with feisty hyenas iHang my hammock from Jupiter and Moon iHang from under waters iCome from earth Therefore I am dirt Me and earth Are friends from birth iNeed sunlight To make the mood right Crave the morning breath It has been proven that at some point Human’s thoughts come together and occur at the same time Two or more points meeting at the same time And we play this game called “I wonder if anyone has thought of this thought?” A word is born every three seconds… We choose to ignore them so they die in Kihabso Stirring plates with greasy fat from dissected moles Phone boots picturesque dream feeling holes Squeeze my brain Literalmente Squeeze the alphabet Bet on alpha-sex Dance the Indian dance If you find yourself in danger call me up I will save you Yours truly, Lezebi
By: Marcos Longoria 38
Prince Morphine
Rode up on your white horse I was face down in the mud
Said, "Hey, man, wanna buy a girl a drink?" Offered me your gloved hand
Fixed me up real nice Asked me to come home with you
I didn't think twice
I wanted a Prince Charming But I got you instead I got Prince Morphine
Sleeping in my bed
Asked for a dozen roses You tucked a poppy behind my ear
You sing me lullabies until my passions are doused Your sheets are real soft
But your love makes me itch I don't feel the pain any more
But I don't feel shit
I wanted a Prince Charming But I got you instead
I sleep with Prince Morphine I feel like I'm dead
By: Sheri Tardio
39
Kiss the Shadow Kiss the hand That caresses the frozen landscape Colours the dead In the shades of black Another day in the living As the memories are mere shadows Will you keep loving me, Even when I’m gone. By: Adrian AIDZ Giannini
40
The Artist The artist, Ivan de Monbrison currently resides in Paris, France. " Art is for me the only answer in our modern world to the question of death and the fragility of human nature. Through the ages human beings have used the representation of the world as a medium to conjure what they saw has powerful elements of nature that they could not explain and which would threaten them, it included spirits of the ancestors, forces of nature, death itself etc. I think this process is still at the core of the art medium…”
For more information on these pieces or any of his other artworks, please visit him at: http://www.artmajeur.com/blackowl/ We at take-it-to-the-street-poetry wish to thank Ivan for sharing his artwork so
generously with us and others across the globe.
41
Take-it-to-the-street-poetry wishes to thank all of the contributors and supporters. Your belief in our vision of “people getting words to people that don’t get words” is what makes this possible. As long as there is an artistic hole in the universe, we will find ways to fill it with words and art. For more information, please visit us at: http://takeittothestreetpoetry.com/ For information on some of the contributors, please visit: http://takeittothestreetpoetry.com/contributor-contact-info/ Published by Free Penny Press Tampa, Florida